What Doesn't Kill You

by Cate Dean

  He felt heat flare across his face. Ducking his head, he fiddled with the new shipment of incense until Mom and Marcus left the shop. With a sigh, he pulled out his cell and called in his order, then plopped on the stool, hunched his shoulders, and tried to figure out how to get over to Annie’s and still have the shop covered. He was smart—he’d figure a way—

  The door opened; without the bell to announce, Zach moved into sight to greet whoever came in. It was too soon for the delivery—

  He skidded to a halt when he recognized James.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  James didn’t even flinch. “Hello, Zachariah. I am here for my tarot lesson.”

  “I’ll show you what to do with your damn cursed deck—”

  Surprise flashed across James’ face just before Zach tackled him.

  They slid across the floor, slamming up against the front wall. Zach punched him, the sharp pain that tore across his knuckles oddly satisfying. He swung his fist back for another blow, and froze, his rage switching off so fast he had to clutch the floor.

  “What—” He shook his head, trying to remember why he lost his temper. His left hand curled around the tarot deck, the cards fitting themselves perfectly into his palm. His desire to do a spread, just a quick one, made his hand shake. “Table,” he muttered, getting to his feet. “No—counter will do. Closer.”

  Like an addict holding his fix, he clutched the cards and moved to the granite counter. Heat pulsed off the deck, spreading up his arm. And with that heat came the memories. Of power. Of his absolute superiority over mere humans. He was an angel—God protect him, why did he give that up? To be a mortal, live a small, petty life?

  Now he had the chance to change that, become what he was meant to be. A power among mortals, a power to be respected. To be feared. To be worshipped.

  With the fever of need, he slapped down a three card spread, touching each card, tracing the outline of the figures that foretold his new path. His greater path.

  “You understand now, Zachariah.” James moved to his side, laid one hand on his shoulder. The touch of an accent skimmed under his voice, familiar. Zach didn’t care enough to pursue it. All he wanted now were the cards. “They can give you back what you were, what you threw away. All you have to do is ask for it, believe it is possible.”

  “Yes,” he whispered. The pain of being human, of feeling all the time, had become such a burden. Zach didn’t want this anymore. The small part of his mind screaming at him that it was all a lie was smothered by a hot, deep need. “I want it back. All of it.”

  James smiled, took his hand. “Then it is yours, my friend.”

  Fire seared Zach, burning along the scars on his back, where his wings had been. With a ragged scream he dropped to the floor, his hand sweeping the cards off the counter and down with him. One hand crabbed across the floor, clutched at them, the relief when he made contact—overwhelming. He’d almost lost his chance to be whole again.

  SIX

  “Annie?” Eric closed the front door, heading for the kitchen. He figured if his wife was anywhere, it would be there, drinking some of the chamomile tea she despised, and treating herself with a cookie or five. Claire had tried to hide her concern, but even through the phone Eric heard it, and it put him on edge. Annie didn’t need another struggle; this pregnancy had been difficult enough already. “Annie, are you here?”

  “Can you give me five seconds to answer before you start harping on me?” Annie stalked into the living room, her anger so palpable he could almost see it. “Damn it—can’t you all just leave me alone?”

  He did see the sparks flying off her wedding ring. Red sparks. He went on high alert. “You know all you have to do is ask, sweetheart.” He kept his voice quiet, neutral. “You want me to leave, I’m gone. Or I’ll stay. It’s up to you.”

  “You’re leaving me?!” Obviously he said the wrong thing. She pointed at him, those red sparks shooting over her hand, massing at the end of her finger. “Over your dead body, mister. Take one step out of this room and I’ll—Eric?” Between one second and the next, Annie changed from harpy to—Annie. The red sparks winked out, leaving her hand raw. “Oh, God—my head is killing me.”

  She started to wobble, headed for the floor. Eric lunged forward, catching her.

  “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Carefully, he eased her to the carpet, afraid she might topple if he tried getting her to the sofa. “Just hang on to me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What are you talking about?” She looked at him, those vibrant, warm brown eyes dull. “You just got here—ouch—what the hell?” Clutching her wrist, she looked at her left hand. “What did I do?”

  Before he could answer the front door burst open. Claire pushed past Marcus, dropped to her knees. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her fingers hovered over Annie’s raw, blistering hand. “Marcus felt your temper blocks away.”

  Marcus eased Claire to one side, cradled Annie’s hand. “What caused this?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Red sparks,” Eric said. He sat on the coffee table before his legs gave out. Claire sat next to him, took his hand. “Coming from her ring. Right after she started accusing me of leaving her.”

  “I—what?” She shook her head, her good hand spread over her swollen stomach. “I know you’d never leave us.” His throat tightened at the plural. “I’d kill you first.” She smiled. “Slowly.”

  “There’s my Annie.” Thank God. He didn’t recognize the crazy woman who was seconds away from blasting him with magic. Annie never used her power against an innocent. And Eric damn well wanted to know what had happened to push her that far. “Now, let Marcus take care of your hand. I’ll make you some tea.”

  Her shout followed him into the kitchen. “Not chamomile!”

  He smiled. It faded the second he was out of sight. Shaking, he laid his hands on the island, lowered his head. Gentle fingers closed over one hand. “She scared you.”

  “I didn’t recognize her, Claire.” Turning, he leaned against the island, ran one hand through his hair. “What is going on?”

  She rubbed his arm, her touch soothing. He’d always admired that about her. Even when he didn’t deserve it, after trying to kill her, she gave him only care and kindness. “Let me catch you up.”

  *

  Simon walked along Forest Avenue, breathing in the salt-tinged air.

  He had missed the smell, the cool touch of that ocean breeze brushing over his skin. He planned on enjoying it while he was here. Stopping, he turned, admired the tree lined street, the beach just beyond it. Another thing he would enjoy were moments like these. He’d learned not to take anything for granted when he traveled through Asia.

  And at this moment, he planned to enjoy Claire’s company. He had missed her as well, more than he expected. More than he wanted to admit.

  The Wiche’s Broom came into sight, and he took a deep breath. It had been more than six months, without even a letter from him. His welcome home might be less than welcoming.

  A kid ran across the street, familiar brown bags in both hands. “Hey!” He waved one big bag at Simon. “You know Zach, right?” Simon opened his mouth to answer; the kid never gave him a chance. “Can you take this? I’m already behind and Lily’s gonna dump all over me if I don’t finish these.”

  He shoved the bag in Simon’s hand and took off.

  Shaking his head, Simon smiled, hefting the bag. It was for Zach, all right. And it gave him a legitimate reason to be here.

  “Time to face the music.” Bracing himself, he pushed the door open.

  The power blasted him.

  “Claire!” Simon dropped the bag and sprinted through the long, narrow shop, wishing to God he had a weapon. The dark power coated the air, angry at his presence. It flinched away from him, flying back to the source. Simon followed it, pulling his crucifix out from under his t-shirt. And halted when he reached the back of the shop. “Sweet Jesus—”

  Zach snapped his head up, his clear bl
ue eyes glowing. Just like the rest of him. The rich dark blue that was his power as an angel surrounded him—the same glow Simon hadn’t seen since the night Claire helped Zach fall. His tattoo stood out on his right wrist, the wings and flaming sword outlined with an almost blinding white light.

  “Simon—what are you . . .” Zach’s voice faded, his hands scrabbling over a pile of what looked like hand painted cards. “You can’t have them.” Clutching the cards to his chest, he stood, backing away. “They will give me what I want—”

  “You have what you want, Zach.” Simon kept his voice even, his movements slow. That glow screamed power, and he had no protection on him. Not that any would stop it. He’d been walloped with Zach’s temper, and didn’t want to enjoy the experience again. “Where is your mother?”

  Panic flared through the glow, dimming it. “She can’t know! You can’t tell her—”

  “What, Zach? Are you ashamed of what you’re doing?” Simon took a step toward him; Zach leapt back, slamming into the wall, trapping himself. Just what Simon intended. “Where did you get the cards?”

  “From me.” The low voice spun Simon around. Here was the source. Darkness coiled around the short bald man who stood between him and the back door. To Simon’s horror, he realized that darkness was feeding off Zach’s power, drinking it in as fast as Zach could pump it out. “You know.” The man spit the words out, fear and rage flickering through the dark coils. “How can you—”

  “It’s a gift.” Simon punched the shorter man in the nose, watched him topple backward with a pained scream. Shaking out his hand, he turned around and headed for Zach. “Drop the cards, son.”

  “No—don’t touch me, you can’t have them!” Zach slid along the wall, the blue glow pulsing. Not a good sign.

  Simon did the only thing he could think of—he yanked off his crucifix and threw it at Zach.

  The boy’s agonized scream pierced him. Simon lunged forward and caught Zach as he dropped, braced for whatever that power would throw. By the time he grabbed Zach the glow faded to almost nothing, leaving a hum over Simon’s skin. He wrapped his arms around Zach, wanting to get him the hell out before their mystery guest recovered. And froze when the cards leapt up from the floor, a whirlwind of color and sharp edges.

  Simon put himself between Zach and the cards, waiting from them to surge forward and attack. Instead they shuffled together, shot over to the waiting hand of the bald man. Zach moaned against his back, fists clutching his shirt.

  “You can’t keep yourself in front of him forever, priest.” The man let the cards dance over his hand, like a slow motion film of a magician flipping his deck. His other hand pinched his still bleeding nose, his voice muffled and thick. Simon set out to break it—looked like he succeeded. “I will have him. I will have all of them, before this is done. And you, with your special talent, and all your skills—you will only be able to stand and watch me take them. I look forward to the day, as payment for this interruption.”

  He snapped his fingers and the cards dropped into his open palm. Frowning, he watched them sift and shudder, before they finally settled.

  “I will see you again soon, Zach.” Flat, cold brown eyes met Simon’s. “Stand between us again, priest, and it will take more than your fist to stop me.”

  He pulled the back door open and stomped out, taking that soul-sucking darkness with him.

  Zach let out a sigh, sliding down Simon’s back. “Whoa—” Simon caught him, eased him to the floor. “I’ve got you, son. Are you all right?” He studied Zach’s too-pale face, ready to haul him off to the nearby clinic.

  “Yeah.” Clearing his throat, Zach managed a smile. A ghastly smile, but a smile. The glow was gone, leaving behind one exhausted, sweat soaked teenage boy. “I was fighting to hold on to this.”

  He raised his hand. His fingers shook against the card in his palm. Up close, Simon recognized it. One of the cards from the deck—old, and reeking of its own twisted power.

  “Is it hurting you?”

  Zach blinked. “Not anymore. I was—glowing, wasn’t I?”

  “Like a neon sign.”

  “And my tattoo?”

  “I could have lit up the room with it.”

  Swallowing, Zach slid the card down his leg, toward a small zippered pocket on the thigh of his cargo pants. The card fought him, snapping and twisting, like it was alive. Cursing under his breath, Zach kept going, until he finally wrestled it into the pocket, and closed the zipper. The card pushed against the heavy cotton a few times before it settled. Even through the thick blue fabric, Simon could see the darkness, feel the taint of the spell infused in the card.

  Zach raised his head, and studied Simon, frowning. “What’s different? Oh—you let your hair grow.”

  Simon ran his hand over the hair that now hung past his ears. “Not many hair salons in Tibet.” He gripped Zach’s elbow. “Let’s get out of here and find your mom. Do you have a key?” Zach nodded, hanging on to Simon and the wall to help him stand. “Please tell me she knows about this asshat.”

  Zach snorted out a laugh. “Did you learn that in Asia, Father?”

  Smiling, relieved at the normal emanating from Zach, Simon led him through the shop, picking up the takeout bag on the way to the door. He figured Zach would need it. “Sarcastic former cop first, priest second. Which is why I left the church.”

  Zach stared at him. With a start, Simon realized he stood eye level, matching Simon’s six foot plus height. “Wow. You have some splaining to do.”

  “Yes, Zach.” Simon let out a sigh. “I do.”

  *

  Claire argued until she was hoarse, but Annie refused to go upstairs to rest.

  Marcus settled her on the huge sectional in the family room. He tucked a blanket around her, Annie sniping at him—normal sniping, Claire noted with relief.

  “Last I checked, Jinn, my arms still worked.”

  “Last I checked, you were all but foaming at the mouth. Allow someone to care for you, Annie.”

  Tears filled her eyes, and to Claire’s surprise she gripped Marcus’ hand. “Stop being so nice to me. My emotion filter is broken.”

  Smiling, he sandwiched her hand. “I know.”

  A choked laugh escaped her. “Stop wasting your charm.”

  “It is never wasted on a friend.”

  “Damn it.” The tears spilled over. She leaned in, kissed him full on the mouth. “Don’t get any ideas from that. I’ll blame my hormones if you ever try to blackmail me with it.”

  “So noted.”

  He stood, let Eric take his place. Annie took his hand, laid it over her stomach. Eric let out a shaky breath, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her in. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Me too,” she whispered. Lifting her head, she looked at Claire. “I remember who came in the store.” Crouching in front of Annie, Claire laid one hand on her knee. “There was a man . . .” Her voice faded.

  “Short, bald, brown eyes?”

  Claire felt her shudder. Eric tightened his grip on her. “How did you—he’s the reason you needed an emergency store-watching.” She studied Claire; without warning, her left hand captured Claire’s, and the sapphires in her wedding ring flared a deep blue. “Tell me what happened—and don’t lie, because I know it was something ugly.” Annie glanced at her ring, the blue sparks gathering around Claire’s hand.

  Shame washed through Claire. What she had done to her own son, that complete loss of control—what if it meant the demon still lived inside her? That, instead of being abolished by Azazel and her new soul, it had simply crouched in the dark, waiting for a chink in her still vulnerable armor. James created that chink, letting out just a small part of what she had been—

  “Claire.” The impatience in Annie’s voice told her it hadn’t been the first attempt to get her attention. “Stop crawling into that hole. You’re not alone this time.”

  “Annie.” She jerked free, terrified that her proximity to the baby might
flick a switch she couldn’t turn off. “I shouldn’t be near you.” Standing, she backed toward the front door. “I shouldn’t be near any of you, not until I know what is happening to me.”

  Marcus moved forward. “Claire—”

  “Stay away.” She felt the old need, tingling, gathering, wanting to unleash. “Please—I need to—”

  “Mom! Annie!” The kitchen door slammed closed. “Guess who I—” Zach froze in the doorway, obviously sensing the tension. “What?”

  Claire retreated, caught between the two people she loved most, and could hurt the most. It was the reason she never made emotional connections as a demon, until she met Annie. Any attachment left her victim wide open, trusting—and finding out too late they shouldn’t have trusted.

  Marcus stepped to her. “You don’t need to be afraid, sweet. Not here. Not with us.”

  “I feel my control—slipping.” Swallowing, she kept moving away as they tried to close the distance. Her brave men. God help her, she loved them so much. And it would destroy her if she caused any permanent harm. “I don’t want—”

  “Hello, Claire.” That low, quiet voice had her heart pounding. Simon moved into sight, stepping around Zach. His appearance surprised her so much, so didn’t have a chance to escape before he took her hands. “Your energy is different.” He studied her, those clear green eyes troubled. “You were touched by him as well.”

  “Who?” Panic shot through her. “Did James come back?” She yanked out of Simon’s grip and rushed over to Zach. “Did he hurt you?”

  “He tried.” Zach avoided her eyes, scuffing the carpet with his tennis shoe, which signaled loud and clear that whatever happened was not good. “Simon helped get rid of him. But I was about to—”

  “Zachariah,” Claire said. He flinched at the use of his full name. She didn’t do it often, and hadn’t since he discovered the truth about himself. “I want you to tell Annie about James.” He looked up, clearly surprised. Claire was surprised as well. She meant to browbeat, but her mind had another agenda.